


How to Know When You're in Love

by Lauriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauriarty/pseuds/Lauriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds himself in the difficult position of admitting his feelings to John Watson after The Fall. While he is quite sure that there is no one else but John, fate doesn't seem to agree. Shameless Johnlock implications, Sherlock POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally uploaded to Fanfiction, and I just decided to put it here, as you an see. This work has not been Beta'd or looked over at all, so all errors are entirely my fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was uploaded to Fanfiction and I just decided to put it here, as you can see. This work has not been Beta'd at all, so all grammatical/spelling errors are entirely my fault.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock.

Chapter 1

"Sherlock?"

I hear his voice from his bedroom, calling to me. I want to get up and go to him, to tell him I'm all right, but then again, that would be an obvious lie. Because I am not all right, and it would be excessively appalling to tell him a lie at this time.

I hear John's footsteps coming closer, down the hallway and already past his door. By the way he steps quickly I can tell he is worried about me, for whatever reason I did not understand at the moment. Then again, he was almost always worried about me, making sure I'm okay and forcing me to eat because it's 'healthy'. The memory of the day I collapsed from food deprivation is one I have not deleted, and I do not plan to anytime soon.

Finally, John rounds the corner and he is in view of me, his view in mine. Our eyes meet and without a word I can almost see the words passing through his head. The sigh of relief and the relaxing of muscles was all I needed.

"Sherlock..." He approaches, however keeping his distance. "Are you okay?"

I nod subtly, not taking my eyes of his. He turns his head to the left side, and I know he is attempting to read me. I bring forth the emotionless mask so easily - I have done it my whole life - and he looks away, defeated. I stand up from the sofa now, still watching him.

"John," I began hesitatingly. "I need to... er... I need to tell you something."

Stuttering? Detestable. Unusually rare. I never stutter. I am sure with what I say and I recite my dialogue beforehand. It is almost impossible for me to stutter. But with realization I come back to the fact that with John Watson, you could never tell what would happen next.

"What is it?" John asks. Oh, yes. John - so understanding. Extremely unusual, too. Had it been in the beginning when I first felt my attraction to him? Probably. When we first met, I found him interesting, more so than others.

No. It was not then. It was officially when I had caught sight of him with the shock blanket draped over my shoulders, Lestrade yapping away about the shot cabbie to me. Everything had slowed down in the crime scene when his eyes met mine. I knew it was him that had just saved my life. We had barely known each other, and this man was risking himself for me. Me, the antisocial, sociopathic freak. Yes, that was when I knew that he was different, that he was special. That I wanted to keep him.

Thinking about John that way made it worse. I realized I did not want to tell him the truth now.

What if he is disgusted? What to be if he pitied me and chose to fake admiration back? No - that is not the worst situation that could happen with us. The worst would be for him to leave me. Just like everyone else. He would pack slowly, his head hung not in shame but in regret and pity, not able to look at me in the eye. Not able to ever look at me again. Which would be why he would leave me, and I can see the ugly image playing in my head: John Watson turning to leave, walking through 221B and disappearing into London, never to be seen by me again. I would not be surprised, simply disappointed and almost saddened.

Wouldn't I?

I take a breath once more to speak, but the words so carefully recited do not come out of my mouth. I stand there, hesitant, frozen, speechless.

I hope enormously that John realizes the situation before I would have to tell him. I also hope he would forget about this entire morning. If he were to leave now, there would be no harm done, and we would go back to solving cases and talking about murders. But if he left, I would never find the answer to the one question I did not understand.

What is love?

If anything were to be love, it would be John Watson. I remember clearly all the times he dared to give his life for me even after all the times I've lied him and been so rude to him. The man never left me, never doubted me. Even when the entire world was against me with proof, he risked himself to me, to protect me and stay with me.

Friends protect people, Sherlock, he had told me.

No... but there. One more clue. Friends. Had he said lovers? No. Did he - perhaps - mean it? Possibly. No - couldn't be. Would never be.

One more thing I wanted clarified. Sexual orientation. John had dated girls many times. Bisexual? Likely, though if he were he wouldn't try and deny the constant mistaking of his homosexuality. Although he had seemingly flirted with me on the first day at Angelo's. And Irene Adler - she had specified us as a couple. Those men in the bar at Baskerville automatically thought us as lovers. Still, he continued to deny. My god, was John Watson confusing.

Suddenly John stands up, slowly approaching me. I instinctively step back, unsure what to do next. His eyes, searching for answers - not important. His posture - the relaxed shoulders must mean he is the opposite of tense. I sigh in relief, knowing that John was not at all upset or angry about it - whatever 'it' was to him. The way he stepped towards me was alike to how one may approach an animal, attempting to be the most understanding and harmful they can look. Was John trying to tame me? Tame me into what, exactly?

Telling the truth, a voice whispered in my head. Yes, of course.

John snaps me out of my thoughts. He has been doing so recently. He reaches down and suddenly I feel his hand on mine. I relax into the touch. I enjoy the feeling of security John Watson brings with him, the comfort and the assurance that everything will be all right brings my mind to peace. All the hours and days of examining my feelings and making hypotheses of my emotions dissolve in the moment. I am quite sure - extremely sure of the one thing. The thing I have never felt before, not ever, not truly. And then I suddenly want to seize the man holding my hand now, grab him and force his lips upon mine. I want to possess him and keep him and make him mine forever. I want no harm to come to him or me and even the entire London and James Moriarty couldn't possibly pull us apart. I will wake up every morning with him, and he will stay, because he feels the same. Scotland Yard will laugh at us and make a distance, but for once I will not give it a second thought, because I will have John. The brilliant, fantastic, loyal Dr. John Hamish Watson.

Suddenly I feel that I know exactly what I want to tell him: the truth. I love everything about him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I love you, John Watson. I look down and into his eyes, and he looks at me back. No words are spoken, but all that is needed to are already known.

And then I feel John's arms around me in an embrace I would have never enjoyed otherwise. I don't understand what had caused him to do such a thing, but I do not want to stop it. It is somewhat alien to me, and when I would expect myself to recoil, I find myself leaning into John's arms. His warmth soothes me.

I want to tell him. But today is not that day. And so when I pull back, I go back to what I was. At least for a while. Our friendship is pure, and my uncontrollable emotions will not do much other than complicate both of our lives. And so I stand and I hope that someday I will be able to express to him how much he means to me. When John pulls back as well he looks uncomfortable and in a daze, as if he had no idea what he had just done.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I don't know what's gotten into me..."

I want to tell him that it's fine, that I enjoy his presence and would not mind him becoming more.

Instead, I whisper.

"There's been a murder."

And that is that.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The crime scene is not as different as any other. The body is still in a pool of fresh blood. I am disappointed to see that this one is one of the most simplest murders I could imagine, so much that there is no need to even bother anyone else coming here. I glance over to John, who is trying not to look at the body. He doesn't seem to think I noticed, but I did. I always do. Bodies still bothered him. Which was highly unusual considering being... well, him.

"Bothering you." I say.

"A bit..." John admits. His sorry expression makes me want to comfort him - if I knew how to correctly.

"Why?"

I know the answer. I am simply making sure. I am extremely surprised by John's actual reply, however.

"It's just... this was a... person. She had kids. Had a family, and friends."

"Your point?"

John looks at me in slight disbelief and shakes his head as he looks away.

"You wouldn't understand."

I am not exactly hurt by his comment. I do feel a sort of irritation that this is how he thinks of me. An emotionless robot, nonetheless.

If only he knew.

I look back to the body. I do not want to think about John now.

The body is a female. She wears a pink jacket with her jeans. Reminds me of the first case John went on with me. I wonder if John remembers.

_Oh, for God's sake._

Lestrade approaches John and I not long after. He gives us a nod in greeting.

"Have you got anything on this one?"

I sigh. "Oh, where do I start? There are so many complicated things about this one."

"Really?"

"No."

I crouch down, looking over the body once more.

_Skin - purple, waxy. Lips - pale. Fingernails - faded and weak. Hands - blue. Eyes - sunken into the skull. Blood. Windpipe - smashed. ___

There.

Everything clicks in my head in about a second and I stand up.

"Well?" Lestrade asks.

"The body is fresh; about thirty minutes after death."

"How can you tell?"

"Obvious. Skin is slightly purple and waxy. The lips and fingernails are fading to a pale color. The hands are blue. Eyes are sunken into the skull. All these are clear signs of exactly thirty minutes past the body beginning to decay. Not to mention the pool of blood still there. There's a stab wound near the heart; that's where all the blood is pouring from..."

"So they've been stabbed?"

"No, of course not. That was just an afterthought. Probably meant to tick us off. Stupid."

"Then what happened to her?"

"She was choked to death first. Look at her neck - you can still see the marks of the murderer's hands. Then, she was stabbed to throw us off. The killer ran off in that direction..."

I point towards a building close by.

"...and assumed we would look elsewhere. But they ran in a hurry... still holding onto the woman's body as they ran away, leaving the head pointing to the direction they went. And, of course, it's one person. You can see the footprints from the puddle he stepped in on accident on the way there."

"Brilliant."

A glow of now-familiar pride washes over me at John's comment. I can not possibly hold back the smile now. Hopefully no one notices. Especially...

Speaking of Anderson, I think to myself as I watch the man approach us. He's the same - ugly and stupid as ever. The mood fades as he lays his eyes on me.

"Did the freak think of more lies?" Anderson says detestably. "Just like the last time?"

"You know the truth," I narrow my eyes. "And I'm sure you had a spectacular time last night."

A flicker of realization dawned upon Anderson and he gives me a cold stare.

"Shut up."

"Did Sally enjoy as much? I doubt it."

"I said shut up, you freak!"

Although he acts defiant now I can see his face reddening as he attempts miserably to avoid Sally Donovan's direction. I see Sally looking down now too, suddenly interested in her shoes.

I look back to the body, pleased to see that I had once more confirmed Anderson's utter stupidity.

"At least I have people who care about me," Anderson sneered. Everyone became silent and I sigh. No time for this anymore. Still, Anderson goes on.

"No one likes you. I'm sure you know that, too. We don't even need you here! You need us for your crazy psycho problems. And you know what else? We were all relieved to hear you left, that you were a fake. No one likes you coming here. You should have stayed away-"

"Shut the hell up, you idiotic piece of shit."

Everyone immediately turned to the voice. I find myself turning to John Watson.

"Scotland Yard would be a failure if Sherlock weren't here all the time," John begins, staring down Anderson with an intense, hateful stare. "He's fifty times smarter than you lot. Especially you, Anderson. Sherlock's clever and amazing and brilliant and continues to impress us every day. How many murders has he solved and found you were all wrong about? Oh, that's right. About all of them. He's proven he was better than all of you countless times. He puts up with your pointless, mocking comments. Which, of course, proves even more how fantastic he is. I..."

He turns to me and I stare. It seem like hours until he finally look back to Lestrade and the officers.

"...I think he's the greatest, most brilliant person in the world. And you should all too."

I begin to feel an odd feeling as my John gave me a small, reassuring smile when passing me. A sort of happiness mixed with thanks. A feeling of want and relief. The emotional merge of...

_Oh._

It is love.


	3. Chapter 3

The cab ride is so familiar by now. The only difference at the moment is John's closeness. He sits next to me - the same as ever - except he no longer sits on the far edge of the cab. Our knees touch. His hand rests on his thigh, and I want nothing more than to put my hand on top of his. Or for his hand to rest on _my_ leg. How odd.

It is an unusual feeling - these emotions that I have never felt close to before. It is not even fake or for an experiment. I had unwilling fallen in love.

Finally, I can't bear the silence any longer and speak.

"John."

"Yes?"

"Thank you. What you did there... that was... nice."

"You're welcome. Anderson needs to be told to shut up."

"But... it's true, isn't it?"

John turns to me, staring intently.

"What are you talking about?"

I sigh, not quite sure how to explain.

"What Anderson said..." I begin hesitantly. "That I only go to the crime scenes for myself..."

John seems to realize what I was attempting miserably to say and his jaw clenches.

"Stop."

"...that they don't need me..."

"Sherlock, stop it."

"...that no one cares about me." I finish, avoiding John's gaze. I look out the window at London zooming past us. I have no idea what my emotions are doing at the moment.

Suddenly I feel John grab my collar, pulling me to face him. I find myself inches from his lips, every minuscule detail of his eyes visible.

Especially that they were shockingly dilated.

"John..." I attempt to say, my voice coming out in an almost inaudible whisper. He seems to ignore me, and a spark flares inside me when his eyes dart to my lips. I close my eyes. This is it - the moment. Nothing else in the entire world matters anymore.

"Sherlock..."

"Hmm?"

"I just want you to know that I..." he pauses.

 _What is it!?_ I cannot not possibly wait longer. How long has it been since I wanted so terribly to hear the words? I want him to say it. I need him too. He absolutely must now -

"...I care about you."

I open my eyes.

"Thank you, John," I look down, withdrawing myself from his grasp.

John nods. I look back out the window.

I am not disappointed. I am not upset. I shouldn't be. What was I expecting, anyway? He is my flat-mate. I am his. Nothing more.

Nothing ever more.

Still, I am happy. I am relieved that I no longer have to hold the burden of this love phase. Just friends. I'm stronger than all this. I can move on. It is possible... isn't it?

"You okay?" John asks.

"Yes, of course."

John sighs.

"So... fancy some dinner?"

"If you wish."

_"Sherlock."_

"What now?"

"You have to eat."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"John - I'm not hungry," I say with the most convincing glare I can give. "Hunger keeps me focused. I don't have to worry about the need of it. Food slows me down. I've explained this to you multiple times before. Don't you understand that I don't need food to function?"

John is not changed from my statement, however.

"You're eating tonight. Can't convince me otherwise. I won't have a half-dead consulting detective on my hands," John said in that 'conversation-is-over' tone. "Don't you remember the last time you didn't eat longer than you usually don't?"

Yes.

Still, I open my mouth to protest furthermore but realize that there is nothing I can do to change John's mind this time. Not at the moment. Perhaps when we arrive.

Finally, the cab stopped at 221B and I climbed out with John at my side. We get in the flat and both shrugged off our jackets. I watch John as he makes his way to the kitchen.

He hasn't eaten for about five hours. A long while - for him, at least. Must be hungry. Planning to go out, then. Perhaps the restaurant around the corner. More take-out is also a possibility. Right now, he's just getting some tea before we go.

"Tea?" John asked from the kitchen. _Right, then. ___

"No, thank you."

"Alright."

He comes into the room and sits in front of me. I watch him patiently. I see something in his eyes. Plans, like -

"You're thinking about Angelo's?"

John looks up, and smiles.

"Well, yes. We haven't been there for... well, I can barely remember how long anymore. But it was one of the first places we went together..."

 _Together._ If I knew I would be wanting this much to hear that word numerous times, I wouldn't believe it.

"That would be lovely," I find myself saying.

"Really?" John's bewildered expression is uncalled for.

"Why, yes."

"Huh," John says, taking a sip from his tea and then setting it back down. "Do you want to go... maybe tomorrow?"

"Yes."

John smiles and I can't help but smile slightly as well. Even though he had found a way to basically promise I will be eating tomorrow.

"Tonight, however, I'm going to make sandwiches. It's been a long day..."

I nod as he stands up to go back to the kitchen. I hear the clink of the utensil drawer opening, the plastic crinkling of a loaf of bread, the opening of the refrigerator...

I close my eyes and bring my hands together, listening.

"What kind would you like?" I hear John ask.

"Whatever you want. Though we are out of jam."

I hear a cabinet open.

"Well. It seems we are."

A few minutes later John brings a plate with two sandwiches on it. He brings the chair up close to mine and sits close. He sets the plate right in front of me.

"Eat," he says with a stern tone.

I exhale heavily but pick up one of the food. I look at it for a second more, not hungry at all.

_Cheese. Meat - turkey? Lettuce. Tomatoes -_

"Sherlock - stop deducing the sandwich and just eat."

I glance at John, who is now eating his own sandwich. I look down and slowly take a bite.

I chew slowly, carefully. Tasting every ingredient and grain as efficient as I can.

"Good?" John asks.

I shrug. I will not admit that I am tolerating it.

Finally, the sandwiches are gone, and John smiles.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I suppose," I mumble.

John stands. "Now you can do whatever you want."

I hesitate before replying.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Thank you. For... making me eat. No one's ever done that before."

John looks exceptionally surprised and smiled.

"You're welcome."

I smile again. John Watson - continuing to change my life every day.


	4. Chapter 4

Eating at Angelo's had felt both different and familiar at the same time. We had sat in the same seats we had the first time we went there. It wasn't horribly boring, either. Nothing with John was boring anymore.

I stand now in the center of the flat. The bow glides smoothly on the strings of my violin, the various notes and tones vibrating into the air. I add vibrato to the tones to create a more expressing sound. I breathe slowly, my eyes closed, listening for the correct notes and adjusting when necessary. The song I'm playing has been etched into my mind almost permanently, allowing me to bring forth the memory into the violin. I am lost in the music, seeing, feeling, and hearing nothing else.

Still, I can feel John's presence close by. I can hear his soft breath, and I can almost feel his attention. It is not necessarily distracting, of course. In fact, I quite liked it. He is the perfect audience; never interrupted, stayed completely attentive, and quiet. Sometimes he multi-tasks, but most of the time he sits and listens. I love it when he does that.

When I play the final note, I tuck the violin under my arm as I apply rosin to the bow, five strokes up and down, no more or less. I pretend to concentrate on the bow, though I listen for John.

"I loved that," I finally hear John comment. "What was it?"

"Mendelssohn."

"Ah," he says. "It's beautiful."

"Yes, it is."

"I love the way you play it," he goes on.

"Yes?"

"You play it with such... emotion. Sometimes it's powerful and brooding, but sometimes it's quiet and... soft. It's unusual - in a good way."

He does not have to say it for me to get the hint that he was somewhat describing me through the music. I feel a warm glow when John speaks about me in a positive way. He makes me feel appreciated, different, and special...

No - stop. Not now. Definitely not. I shake my head, trying to get my mind back to not-John. It should not be all about him anymore.

 _But hasn't it always?_ A voice says in my head. _Ever since the beginning?_

I ignore it and set down the rosin next to the skull. I had made my decision and I was not going to change it.

Still. John wouldn't stop being so... _John._ I hate the way he distracts me, bringing me down from my thoughts. I often find myself striving to impress him rather than thinking during cases. Even now, I notice. Playing the music more clear and perfect than I usually would. Usually I would be thinking as I play. The violin helps me to think. Now, I play to impress John. I can no longer think about the murders or chemistry that interest me. It is so...

"Tedious," I find myself saying out loud.

"What?"

"Nothing."

John nods and moves to stand up. He seems to approach me and I straighten for his presence close to me. He brushes my left arm as he walks by. I close my eyes, savoring the touch.

I hear John's footsteps fade into the kitchen, where the familiar clinks of cups ring. Tea, of course. Soon I hear the pouring of liquid into cups and I move to sit down in the chair John had previously been occupying. I can feel his body heat in the cushions, pressing on my back. I lean myself more into the chair.

John does not seem to notice my seating when he brings in the tray with tea. Not expected to notice, anyway. Instead John takes his new place on the chair across from me. I watch him carefully as he pushes one of the tea cups towards me. I gently pick it up and lift it to my lips, still watching him.

The hot liquid makes a burning sensation on my tongue. Burned now, most likely. Oh, well. It heals easily.

I watch John as he drinks his own cup of tea. His eyes are closed, and he licks his lips immediately after setting back down the cup. I catch myself staring at his lips. I imagine how they would feel against my own. How would they feel like? Soft, perhaps? They looked soft. Although John always had a sort of toughened side to him. Would he be dominating and fighting for control? Make a simple kiss into a battle? Either way would be perfectly fine.

_Stop._

Only I cannot stop. My self-control is the strongest around; I would be able to get over this petty... crush.

I shudder at the ordinary, mediocre word when it appears in mind and attempt to think of different ones.

_Attention. Admiration. Attraction._

"What is it?" John suddenly says. I snap out of my thoughts and bring my attention to him.

"Nothing."

"Please - let's not do this 'nothing' stuff."

"It's the truth."

"No, it's not."

I sigh at John's stubbornness.

"It's... you."

John looks at me curiously.

"What about me?"

I exhale again, pondering on what I should tell him. Definitely not the exact truth. Not yet, that is. The question was what lie I should think of. Although John knows me well by now. He might be able to see through it. I decide to tell the truth... sort of.

"All the words in the Oxford Dictionary and English language cannot possibly describe how I feel about you."

"I..." John pauses. "I, um. Don't exactly know if that's a compliment or an insult. But thanks, I suppose."

We sit in silence for a while. It's somewhat comforting and peaceful to know that no words are necessary between us. With others you must always speak or nod and gesture; any sort of reply to everything they say. With John, we never have to fake. We both knew what we had to and spoke when we needed to. It is not the speaking that is necessary when it came to us, it is the presence and company of each other.

Finally, John speaks first. He usually does now.

"So... how do you even play the violin?" He pauses. "I mean, I'm just curious..."

"Would you like me to teach you?"

The words came out too quickly for me to catch them. I take it back almost immediately after they had been said. What would he think? Would he feel uncomfortable? Might he get the wrong idea?

The expected reaction of being embarrassed does not show on John, to my utter relief. Instead, he seems taken back in a positive way. I no longer feel as apprehensive as I had.

I stand up, retrieving my violin from the table and setting the rosin down next to the skull.

"Come here," I motion, and he stands up, making his way to stand next to me. We are inches apart, and the atmosphere becomes more heated for me. Although personal space has never been a significant problem between us, I can feel my heart beat faster and my breathing become quicker. I keep a straight face, hoping that John can not see what he is doing to me.

I pause, suddenly faced with the new challenge of positioning John and I with the violin. I pass a few ideas and settle on positioning myself behind John. I see him tense, and I instinctively put my hands upon his shoulders, gently massaging him there. I hear him sigh and almost lean his head back, to my surprise. After a few moments I stop to wrap my arms all the way around him, my chest pressing against his backside. It is a surprisingly familiar position, and felt so natural to be this close.

"Give me your hand," I whisper, my mouth next to his left ear. John lifts his arm and I press the bow between his fingers.

"Pointer finger should press down... not that much, just slightly. Third and fourth should curl around the bow. Your fifth needs to stay pointed. Yes - just like that."

Next, I slowly bring the violin up to rest under his chin.

"Keep your fingers on there... that will be the notes. This is the G string, and from there goes to D, A, and then E., Each finger you press down goes up a note.

"Point the scroll upwards. Yes - good. Make sure your elbow is up - not that much - just relax. There we are."

"You make it look so easy," John laughed.

I grinned and put my hand on top of his right one.

"Now start at the tip or frog..."

"The what?"

"The frog - the bottom part. Then, press the bow gently so it will glide on the string..."

A clear note - an F - echoed throughout the room. It was single and simple, yet musical all the same.

John breathes a sigh and I could hear the smile in his voice.

"That's... interesting."

"Yes."

For a moment he turns, and I see how close his lips are to me now. It would be so easy to simply kiss him right there. He might take it as a friendly gesture, anyway. It couldn't be the worst thing that we would have gone through...

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Thanks."

I nod and suddenly become aware of the awkward position we were in and reluctantly pulled back, resting my hands behind my back. John carefully sets the violin and bow down on a chair. I do not know how to explain it, but I know that something in our friendship has changed, if it still is just a friendship. We have now officially gone past the boundaries of personal space, and it would no longer feel awkward or uncomfortable for me to put my arms around him or something similar - if that ever happened again. Something inside me seems to rejoice at the fact that our boundaries are being brought down. I want to break even more of them. Maybe even the strongest of them all, which is friendship.

But then I remember.

_Not yet, I tell myself. Not just yet._


	5. Chapter 5

I wake to the sounds of John. John... yelling. Again.

Nightmares. Always nightmares. About the war. They stopped happening a long time ago. I remember the day when he began to sleep soundly. Now, he has them almost every night. Why?

I am fine with it. Perfectly fine with people having nightmares. I could tolerate John interrupting my thinking or deleting. It's John.

But John having nightmares is the thing that bothers me. John trapped in an ugly illusion within his mind - helpless and entirely unable to get out of it until his mind decides to wake him up. I never had nightmares... not like the ones I am sure John has.

Every morning when he wakes up, he is tired with dark circles under his eyes. Staying up as late as he can before his body betrays him and he has to go to sleep. Not speaking for long periods of time until the day really began. Oh, I am well aware of John Watson's nightmares.

As I stare up into the darkness I realize I want to help him. I want so terribly to enter his room and hold him close; to remind him that they are just dreams and everything is alright.

But I am not that person to him.

So I close my eyes once more and attempt to ignore. But it has been so many nights already. I can not bear it any longer.

I stand up, walking as quietly as I can to John's bedroom. I press my ear against the door, listening carefully.

John is awake - that much I can tell. I can hear his heavy breathing, attempting to stifle the noises so as not to bother me. For a moment I think it is best if i simply leave. He does not want me to know of this. But it is almost impossible to lay awake knowing he is feeling unprotected and generally bad.

As I am leaning against the door my weight shifts and it goes ajar, the hinges creaking slightly.

I freeze, holding my breath. Then-

"Sherlock?"

I exhale and push the door open more enough for me to see John. He is in a tangled heap of blankets, sitting up now and staring at me. Fortunately he is not angry or embarrassed. He seems somewhat relieved and calm now.

"John."

"Did I wake you?" he asks in an apologizing tone. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

John sighs and leans back. I choose this as the right time to approach him. So I do.

I walk over next to his bed and sit down, facing him. Suddenly I have no idea what to do. Comfort him - yes, that seems necessary. But how? What do I tell him? Do I hug him? Should I get water?

I close my eyes and imagine what I would want John to do. I realize now that I am nervous.

"It's okay, Sherlock," John suddenly says. A feeling of relief washes over me. I am sure that there is not one other person more understanding than John Watson.

Still, I do not give up on trying to make him feel better. I scoot myself closer to him.

"Are you okay now?" I ask.

"Sherlock."

"Do you need water? I can get you some..."

"Sherlock- it's fine."

"Do you want me to stay here?"

"I- "

John stops, his mouth half-open in surprise. I wait patiently for his answer.

"Um. I... don't know."

"I don't have to," I say right away. "It was only a suggestion."

"No, really. It's... fine."

I'm already in my pajamas so I simply slip off my dressing gown and walk to the other side. I pull the already messed covers up and crawl into the bed, though half of my body is still out of the bed.

"Don't be silly," John says as he beckons me closer. I move myself, my entire body now on the bed. Right next to John.

"What was your dream about?" I find myself asking.

John does not reply for a few seconds, and I worry that I have hit a sensitive spot before John finally takes a breath.

"Just the same things."

He's lying - obvious. The hesitation was the first clue. But my curiosity did not falter. I want to know what John dreams about at night. I do not want to push him, however. So I sit there in silence.

"Go to sleep, John," I tell him.

"You're not leaving again, are you?"

I turn to John when he asks the question. Quite uncalled for. He seems to be keeping a straight face but there is something there behind it. Apprehension? Sadness? Hesitation? I can not tell.

"I'm not going anywhere," I reply.

"Good."

John relaxes and lays back down. He turns off the light and stares up at the ceiling. I continue to sit.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For staying here."

I find myself smiling - just a little. I do not want him to see. But I am.

The next thing I knew, everything is darkness.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

I open my eyes, blinking to the bright sunlight coming from the window. For a moment I don't remember anything. Then, all the memories rush back to me in a matter of seconds.

Night, sleep, John.

I turn to find John standing on the left side, already dressed. My back still rested against the headboard.

Not good.

I get up abruptly only to wince and fall back.

"You okay?" John asks.

My back aches. My neck feels stiff. When I try to turn it from its position it feels as if a pencil is being pierced into my neck.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" John looks worried.

"Yes."

John looks down. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing you need to apologize for."

"You didn't have to stay here."

"I did."

John opens his mouth to protest once more but decides to drop it.

"Can you get up?" he asks.

"Of course I can."

I can't.

"No; just stay here for today."

"John!"

"I will not have you walking around in pain."

"There might be a case!"

"That can wait."

I pull back the covers and stand up, only to wince again. I ignore it - there have been so many other things worse than this.

I make it to the door before John grabs my arm. I look down at him.

"John. Please let me go."

"No. You need to stay here."

His eyes are pleading and finally, I give in.

"Just let me go to the kitchen."

"Why?"

"There's an experiment there."

"Fine," John sighs. He doesn't let me go, though. Rather helps me out of the room and to the kitchen where various bulbs and wires sit on the kitchen table. I make my way to it and sit on the chair.

"I'll be right back. Stay here, okay?"

"Mhm."

I hear the door of the flat open and close, and I am alone.


	6. Chapter 6

It is Christmas Eve. Fortunately by now I no longer ache from leaning against the headboard for ten hours. Lestrade has also decided to spend his Christmas elsewhere, and so had Molly Hooper. Mrs. Hudson is not here as well. Which leaves John and I alone for the rest of the day.

I have been anticipating the day - not very usual of me. But there is no doubting that I have been looking forward to spending Christmas with just us in the flat.

John had gone out to buy more food. When he comes back I hear the door open as I typed in his laptop. I hear the plastic bags being set down on the counter, and then the various foods being organized into the counters and places of the kitchen. I suddenly realize something. Extra food. More than extra. Usually he just buys for both of us, or just him when it's no use. Now he brought extra... which could only mean...

"Is someone coming over?"

The sounds from the kitchen stopped abruptly. I know I have deduced correctly, and I feel my heart sink in disappointment. Who in the world would John ask to come here for Christmas?

I hope to God it is not Mycroft.

"John?" I check.

"Mmm?"

"It's not Mycroft."

There is a pause.

"No."

"Good."

John suddenly appears next to me, coming from the kitchen. He closes the laptop and I groan.

"I hate it when you do that."

"Sherlock... I need to talk to you."

"What is it?" I drawl. I know what is coming. Or at least, I think I do. John is probably having relatives over. He has spoken to someone on the phone earlier. Parents? Old friends? Cousins? The list can go on.

"Someone is coming for Christmas," John stated. "And you haven't met them yet."

I roll my eyes. This routinely reminder of behaving and being polite is always so terribly sluggish.

"I know, John."

"I know that you know. It's just that... this one might be... different."

"In what way?"

John shrugs. "I just assumed she might surprise you."

_She._

"I doubt anyone could surprise me."

"Just... please be a little less... you."

I turn around fully this time. John steps back.

"Be a little less me?"

"Er. Yes...?"

"John. _Tell me who it is!_ "

"It's..."

A knock raptures at the door. John and I stare at each other. He mouthes a wait here as he walks over to get the door.

I am oblivious.

John soon reenters the room with a woman.

She is a blonde young lady - small and dressed quite properly. Her face is not regular of feature but had no excessive beauty of complexion, but her expression is sweet and amiable. She has large, blue eyes that seemed sympathetic.

When they set on me, I see a flicker of realization and recognition. I narrow my eyes, searching my mind of the faces I've seen before. She looks in no way familiar - not even if I passed her before somewhere. She is standing particularly close to John - though she looks nothing like him - and so can not possibly be a relative.

Then, she does something that diminishes all my thoughts in a second. She takes John's hand to turn him towards her.

And then John kisses her.

I stand up abruptly, resentment and disbelief stirring inside me. I feel like shooting the wall. Or at least get out of the flat entirely. I need to clear my head and think. I need to get away from John.

But it is John, and he has asked me formally to behave myself. In fairness, he has given me time to be prepared for it. But this... I never did expect this. I was never ready.

I reluctantly stand still, watching the incredible vexation of this lady's mouth all over John.

_My John._

"John," I say between gritting teeth. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

"Yeah - hang on," he replies, giving me an annoyed look.

"John."

He looks up, sighs in defeat, and follows me aside. When we are in the hallway and out of earshot from her - I face John.

At first, I am lost at words. What will I say? How do I explain anything?

"I... wasn't expecting you to have brought a date."

John's face contorts into confusion. "What do you mean? I told you she would be coming."

"You didn't specify."

"I'm not going to have this talk right now..." John says, looking away. "And she's not just another date. She's different."

"How so?"

"Just..." John pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. I know I am making it hard for him. But if I did not, he might not see. He has to see that this is all wrong.

Before I can protest any more, John dashes out of the hallway.

"John!"

I follow him and nearly crash into him when I found him stopped, talking to his date. She catches sight of me and gives a smile.

"My name is Mary Morstan," she said, holding out her hand. "You must be Sherlock Holmes."

"Brilliant assumption," I mutter. I do not take her hand, and she shrugs, withdrawing to slip her hand back in John's. I find myself hating everything once more.

A part of me began to feel like this is all a dream. It has to be. Seeing John like this - in a time like this - makes me feel enraged and awful.

"I'll get some drinks," John says and brushes past me. I close my eyes - remembering the last time he past me so close like that - when I was calm and knew nothing was wrong. Now, his touch feels alien and far away. Closed from my reach.

It makes me feel sick.

"Sherlock Holmes - sit down."

I open my eyes, taken aback by Mary Morstan's voice directing towards me. I look behind me for John, but hear him in the kitchen. Not able to hear us there, surely.

"What do you want?" I say, more rude than I meant it to sound. Oh, well.

"I told you to sit down."

"I don't need to."

"Well, then we'll just have to talk like this. I was offering you to be comfortable, but if this is what you prefer, then that's perfectly fine with me."

I stare at her. John had been right. This woman was very different.

"What you have to say to me can be said right now," I say. "I know for a fact you've been waiting to speak to me ever since you arrived. Had to wait until John was out of the room. Couldn't talk with him here. Wouldn't want him to hear what you have to say to me. Is it offending to me? Is it about him? Judging from your-"

"Are you going to be done anytime soon?" Mary interrupts, and I stop, not sure anymore whether to go on or not.

"Thank you," she says. "Now let's get down to it."

I'm silent and she continues.

"First of all. You probably believe I'm just another date John picked up. But I'm not. I knew him for years."

"What are you talking about?"

She ignores me and goes on.

"After you... 'died', I found him."

"Found him?"

"He was lost. You... _destroyed_ him."

"What are you talking about?" My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. I know exactly what she is talking about.

"You have no idea how he was like when you left. You ruined him. He didn't sleep or eat or do anything for months. All he could think about was you. He shut himself up in his room and never came out. I only met him much later. He told me about you one night... had these nightmares about you..."

As she talks, I lose myself in my thoughts. The first emotion I feel is anger and betrayal. Why would John talk about me to others so easily? Then again, I was the one who left him. I had no say in the matter. The second emotion was realization. Those times when John would go out... probably spending time with Morstan. And nightmares... I was so wrong. They weren't about the war again. The most recent ones...

They had been about me.

"...you probably don't even care." I hear her say when I begin listening again. I realize now she is holding back tears. Interesting.

"I hate you," she says - before I can speak - in the most loathing way, her voice shaking slightly.

"I..."

"No - shut up," she stops me. "We both know you're not sorry. You just don't feel, do you? You don't pay attention to how he talks about you. How he thinks about and looks at you. Do you?"

"I had no idea," I admit. "And that... you care about him so much."

"Well yes, I do. I helped him get over it all."

"Get over it?"

"Move on," she says in a explaining tone. "That's how we got together. So don't tell me I don't deserve him. Because I probably deserve him more than you after what you did."

"What am I supposed to do?" I ask softly.

"Stay away from him for now. That's the least you could do after everything..."

I can't think. I can't speak. I can't even attempt to hate her more than I already do.

Because it's true. It's all true. There was no doubting that.

John reenters the room, completely unaware of what had just happened. I stand there, frozen. Mary smiles and seems to amazingly return to her previous, normal state. When John looks away I see her give me a last look.

I have no reason to hate her now. I should be thanking her for what she did for John. I had not even stopped to think about how John had been so fine since the years I was gone. How John was coping.

The only person I could hate and blame now was myself.


	7. Chapter 7

Weeks later, I keep my distance from John. He seems to notice, but also not try to do anything about it. Perhaps this is the way he wants it. Am I just a bother to him?

Soon I begin to realize and notice things concerning John more. I make sure to keep my attention on the way John responds to my voice, or his body language when I walk into the room. He does seem more relaxed to know that I am fine with Mary - which is what I told him, despite my loathing of her.

He goes out more often now, returning very late at night. Sometimes not at all.

The silence is unbearable, but I do not try to stop it. I only deserve it for what I have done to John.

Now I ease the needle into my skin, taking a deep, long breath as the pain becomes a piercing pleasure - a relief, and a distraction. I can imagine the drugs entering my body, the liquids merging into my bloodstream, bringing me to a blissful peace in which I would not have to think as much.

I have turned back to injecting drugs into my body when John wasn't there to help me with my boredom. Which was now almost every day.

I find that my sort of exile from John's attention is slowly driving me insane. I can no longer focus on anything. I feel as though experiments don't matter anymore. Cases are not the same.

I realized not soon after this routine that it is not the drugs, the experiments, or the violin that keeps me alive. It is John. And now, as my vision blurs, my muscles become limp, and my eyelids become heavy, I want nothing more than to sleep forever. It was a terrible, stupid idea to come back to John. I should have stayed away. I should have stayed dead. I should never have met John in the first place...

_"Sherlock?"_

_I hear his voice - calling to me. Distant and from another world. I do not want to go to it, or even be close to it. I want to get away as far as possible - slip back into my sleep and never hear or think about it ever again. But I can not control my coming back to consciousness._

_"Sherlock... open your eyes, please."_

_I unwillingly do so, and as I do I become aware of the heaviness and weakness of my body. John's familiar, friendly eyes come into view when my vision clears._

_"John..." I sigh._

_"Shh..."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"It's fine."_

_"Really?"_

_"Yes. Everything's okay now."_

_I exhale in relief and relax. I find myself grabbing John's collar - pulling him closer to me._

_"What about Mary?" I ask, hesitant._

_"She's left."_

_I stare up at him for a few more seconds, the kindness in his eyes calming me but at the same time washing a fresh wave of guilt._

_"I'm sorry for leaving you in the first place." I look down._

_"It's not your fault," John says gently. "It's Moriarty's."_

_The name sends an involuntary chill down my spine. It had not been mentioned, spoken, or even thought of since then. Now the reminder of that horrible, wicked man brings ill memories._

_"John... I..."_

_And suddenly he's embracing me again. Not a kiss, but good enough. I wrap my arms around him and feel his breath on my neck._

So close...

"Sherlock!"

My eyes snap open, a fresh, terrible tiredness washing over me.

"What is it?"

"What the hell did you do when I was gone!?" John's voice is filled with anger.

I blink for a few seconds, recalling everything that had happened.

 _It was only just a dream,_ the voice in my head tells - reminds - me.

I naturally study John, who stands in the doorway. He's wearing casual yet slightly proper clothes... Mary, of course. He's wearing a new jacket, though. Mary again.

To my dismay I notice that he seems somewhat more healthier and... at ease. Despite his obvious anger towards me at the moment, he no longer looks as tired as usual. At least less so when I stopped talking to him as much. And this can only be one person.

That person is not me.

I try to hide my emotions again, and fortunately John does not pay attention, so does not notice.

Instead, he looks at the needle on the floor, having rolled away from my grasp, and then at my arm, which still had a small mark from where the needle had pierced. Finally, his eyes rest on me, his expression a mixture of disbelief and disappointment.

"Sherlock? What were you doing...?"

"It's none of your business," I snap, more rude than I intended.

Oh well.

"It is all of my business with what unknown poisons and deadly things you put in your body!"

"Well you don't need to worry. Just go on with Mary and leave me here. It took you long enough to notice," I scowl.

John stares at me questioningly.

"Long enough?" he asks. "How long...?"

"Ever since you left me here!" I sit up, ignoring the throbbing in my head. "You just began to leave the moment I stopped talking to you. You were gone for weeks and I simply sat here, waiting for you to come back every night. And you just didn't come back. Ever..."

Suddenly I realize what I had been saying, and take back my words immediately. John pales as he recognizes the nearly same words he had spoken when I came back. He narrows his eyes at me.

"Fine," he mutters. "Drug yourself! I don't care anymore."

"Fine."

But it is really not fine. And as I watch John storm out of the flat and slam the door behind him, I feel hurt. I need to get him back somehow... but not exactly. Still, if I do not, then all will be lost.

I am losing the only thing that mattered to me anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

I feel horribly numb now. Broken down more every day. Without John.

Still nothing in life that matters anymore. Though knowing that he is purposely staying away makes me feel even worse.

Soon Mrs. Hudson attempted several times to speak to me, resulting in a failure.

Days came and went. Night fell and rose. Nothing mattered.

As I lay, staring at the ceiling, I wonder: What now? After everything I had been through; everything we had been through? It all swept away in time. Just like any other person. I should have known.

Dr. John Watson was just another person. Nothing more. I am foolish to believe he would stay with me. Foolish to think I mattered to him. Foolish to fall in love.

A knock rapturing at the door awoke me from my half-sleep on the couch. I glance at the time - afternoon, about dinner time to most people.

Doesn't matter.

The knocks continue and finally I stand up, irritated and wanting nothing more to sleep or think again.

"What is it?" I yell as I yank open the door.

It's Lestrade.

"Sherlock," he says, obviously bewildered by my sudden lashing out at him. He looks behind me, as if expecting anyone else to be there. "Is this a bad time?"

"Yes. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my work."

"There's been a case," he says quickly.

"Boring," I mutter as I move to shut the door again.

"What? Hold on-" Lestrade stops the door from closing and I sigh heavily.

"I don't want to take it," I tell him flatly.

"I haven't even told you what it is!"

God, who knew Lestrade could be this annoying? I remain silent and he seems to take this as permission to continue.

"It's a murder..." he begins, still hesitating. "...shot in the head."

"Dull."

"It's a man..."

I roll my eyes.

"A former ally of Moriarty."

The world seems to freeze.

"Say that again," I whisper.

"Er... an ally. Of Moriarty."

I stare at Lestrade. Almost immediately thoughts and theories race through my head - countless thoughts and theories. Allies... why? Most would move on and find another job to be done. They all care about money anyway. None of them would stay and do absolutely nothing. Attempting to make a mark? A warning? To me, obviously. No one would want to warn Lestrade. Not at the moment. Not concerning Moriarty. Such an easy murder, though. To catch attention. No one would think that through so thoroughly. Unless...

No.

_NO._

"What is it?" Lestrade asks.

"Moriarty."

"Yes, I know."

"He's... you said something about an ally?"

"Seems to be. They left a message... 'JM'...?"

I stare at him. "It's him."

Lestrade stares at me blankly, and I roll my eyes.

"He's alive!"

"That's impossible," Lestrade replies, still confused. "Moriarty died..."

"He wanted to get my attention."

"He's dead!"

" _He's alive,_ Lestrade."

"That's..." Lestrade paused. "No. Can't be. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"My God, why can't you just think? Don't you see what he's doing? He's after me. Again."

I'm pacing now, my head racing with thoughts.

"Sherlock... are you... okay?"

No.

"Yes."

"You look... paler..."

"I'm fine."

"Where's John?"

The simple use of his name makes me feel as if I had been slapped. Hard. Lestrade doesn't seem to see this and I close my eyes, breathing slowly.

"He's... on a date."

"I haven't heard from him in a while..."

"Of course you wouldn't."

Lestrade looks down and I don't say anything more before grabbing my scarf and jacket. I push past him without another word.

"Sherlock!"

Fortunately, he doesn't call twice. Good - knows the smart thing to do.

I take a cab, my mind only on the consulting criminal I had thought deceased. I had seen him dead. Shot. Though I had been able to successfully fake my death.

Why would Moriarty want to be alive? Had he somehow planned all this? Where is he now?

My phone buzzes and I am snapped out of my thoughts. I take it out of my pocket, reading it immediately after turning it on.

_Where are you? Lestrade said you took off in a hurry. -JW_

I feel a sort of lump arise in my throat at the oh-so-familiar initials but force myself to dismiss it. John doesn't care about me. Not anymore, if he did. Even so - he is only being polite. He has Mary now. I should not get in between them.

The cab ride is short and I pay the driver as I step out. The building comes into view. Looking at it causes an odd feeling to wash over me. I walk a few steps to stand next to another building. I look up.

Had this been were he stood? Speaking to me, when all was lost? When all was dark and inexplicably terrifying?

When no one else mattered other than he and I?

No. Can't think about John now.

Still, the building stands, and even its presence couldn't possibly stop me from remembering so clearly the day of the fall. I can see the letters of the building on the side now.

St. Bartholomew's.


	9. Chapter 9

The air is cold on the roof of St. Bart's. Clouds hang in the air; rain is expected soon. I walk up to the edge of the building, an odd sort of familiarity beginning to wash over me. It feels a bit like a dream, staring down at the pavement. I had not deleted the memories of that day so long ago. Though I had tried.

I can even see where John had stood. Where he had looked up at me. Where I could think of nothing else except my plan and him.

Is this really that out-of-control? Are the feelings I'm having right now – the inability to control and conclude my emotions – all right? It doesn't feel as tedious as I had thought it would feel. There is a sort of thrill to not knowing what was going to happen next.

Now, however… what do I expect? I know inside that Moriarty cannot be alive. I was very sure of that. Alive in a way, though. Someone is keeping him alive.

I know exactly who it is.

I suddenly realize what I must do and I make my way back to the roof entrance and down one level. I stay in the shadows of the doorway when I catch sight of a man – simply an outline. Still, he is there, and I keep quiet.

He is tall and muscular, even when he is kneeling in front of the window. He wears a dark turtleneck sweater and jeans. His light brown hair is at average length and his eyes are tired - worn down and possibly depressed. His face is scorched with deep scars. While he seems tough and dangerous his shoulders sag slightly and it looks like he could drop to the ground any moment.

In his hand he carries a sort of stick, but upon setting it down a metal sort of clunk echoes through the empty room. Soon he draws a bulky object from his duffel bag and assembles together various pieces. Soon he straightens up and the thing in which he had been assembling comes into view.

It is a gun.

He opens the breech and puts something in. Then he crouches down, resting the barrel on the ledge of the open window. I come a few steps closer and see the aim: a shadow in the street.

The man sighs in a sort of satisfaction and his finger tightens on the trigger. There is a strange, loud whiz and the sounds of broken glass echo.

I take my chance. I spring myself on to the marksman's back, hurling him flat on his face. He is strong and I feel his grip tighten on my throat. I struggle to breathe.

"You," I hear him mutter. "I have no idea how you got here. But this is it. Say 'hello' to Moriarty for me."

And then he is gone, and I gasp for breath. I squint through the darkness and see another man there.

It's John. Even after all that happened I still feel the same glow when seeing him there.

Our time alone is short. Soon, three or more policemen burst through the door.

"Is that you, Lestrade?" I ask.

"Yes, Sherlock. I followed you on this case anyway."

"That murder… the one you told me about… you didn't even know. Still, I'm sure you handled it pretty well."

I stand up and see our now prisoner breathing hard with two other police holding his arms. I look down at the window and see a crowd… expected.

Lestrade hands me a flashlight and I am able to see now the man. He was looking at no one else but me with a mixture of hatred and surprise.

"You bastard!" he kept muttering. "You clever bastard!"

"Sebastian Moran," I immediately recognize. "I haven't seen – or at least been close to – you, since the day of the… Fall, your boss liked to call it?"

Moran continues to stare at me in a sort of trance now.

"You cunning son of a bitch."

"This is Sebastian Moran," I say, turning to Lestrade and the other men. "The second most dangerous man in London. One of the best heavy-game shots and snipers that England has ever had. Even shot tigers for a hobby."

Moran says nothing, but continues to glare at me. The intensity of despising in his eyes makes him look alike to a tiger itself.

"You have had other guns just in case there were to be others, which there was. Or for you to miss – but that's not exactly a worry, is it, being you? All the same, these…" I gesture around. "…are my guns."

Moran now springs forward and even Lestrade steps in front of me. The fury on his face is terrible to look at.

"You surprised me in one thing," I tell him. "I did not expect you to use this room. I had expected you to be on the street. Still, everything else went exactly as I imagined."

Now, the sniper remains silent this time and I step back.

"Is that all?" Lestrade asks me after a few moments.

"The gun is a particularly unique one."

"We'll keep an eye on that - don't worry. Anything else?"

"What will you charge for our young sniper friend, here?" I nod towards Moran, who is now looking down.

"Well, the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes, obviously," Lestrade says.

"Not only that," I say, and Lestrade seems about to protest but realizes it is better to listen. "You have just captured one of the most wanted criminals… also the one who had put the bullet in the heads of those new murders."

"My God," Lestrade says.

"Yes."

As Moran is hauled away I realize who is standing behind me. I had been so caught up in the event that I had not stopped to even think about him.  
John stands awkwardly at the entrance of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. I have the sudden memory of the first time I had realized his importance.

John Watson has saved my life again.

"So," he clears his throat. "Shall we go, then?"

I want to kiss him. Now. In front of Lestrade and the officers. In front of Sebastian Moran, second most dangerous man in London. In front of everyone.

"John," I whisper. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming here."

"Well, I always come when you need me."

I stare at him.

"It's true," he says, shifting slightly.

"Let's go."

"What?"

"Let's go. Now."

John stares at me, confused as I walk past him and make my way down the stairs.

"Sherlock - wait!" I hear him call after me.

Until I reach the bottom I stop.

"What?"

"We haven't... everything that I said... what I said to you..."

"It's fine," I mutter.

"No, it's not."

"John, please. I don't want to talk about this right now."

"There won't be another time to talk about it."

"We have all the time in the world!"

"No, we have a very limited time together."

I roll my eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, Mary..."

 _That's right._ I had been so caught up in the whole thing that I forgot John isn't mine anymore. Not exactly.

"I understand." I nod and continue to walk out of the building without checking if John is behind me.

Soon, I hear running steps towards me yet I still do not pause.

"Sherlock!" I hear John call. "Sherlock, please wait..."

I spin around.

"Goodbye, John," I say firmly, turning and ignoring the guilt that comes after seeing the hurt expression on his face. He seems to get the message because he doesn't follow me any longer.

Good.


	10. Chapter 10

There is a knock at the door. The violin tune I had been playing is lost from my mind and I stop. I listen intently.

Another knock follows - three of them. A good few seconds after the first - hesitation. Thinking, perhaps? Pondering whether to try again or leave.

I hear shuffling now and wonder if I should get the door. Not a client - even if it were, there would be no point for me to think about taking a case now. Although it would be quite relieving to have my mind focused on something other than all these ridiculous emotions. The few minutes with the Sebastian Moran case had even been enough to make me not think about John - even when he was right next to me. He had not been the main part of my mind as I explained to Greg Lestrade all about Sebastian Moran.

Progress in my attempt to delete John Watson from my mind.

So now I ponder whether I should even bother to open the door at all. What a waste of energy and time it would be to walk over there only to find the person gone or unimportant. How would I feel if they were trying to sell me something? Lash out, most likely. Get complaints.

I sigh. People with their high standards and need to quarrel about pointless things.

I gently set down my violin and walked quietly towards the door. Upon approaching the door I lean myself close, listening against it.

They are still there. And with the hesitance combined with the staying plus nervous breathing right now...

Well, then.

I yank open the door. All the emotion that had been on my face immediately dissolves. I stare cooly at Mary Morstan, standing in the doorway.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she says.

_Formal dress, new and freshly ironed. Faint perfume hanging in the air - applied long before. One shoe has a crease... rushed as she put it on. Her hair is still damp... shower, less than an hour or so ago. Bag has only one possession in it... phone - yes. Tucked away - not minded. Silenced? Shifting... nervous? No. In a hurry? In a hurry for... what, exactly?_

Ah. To get back to John.

"Mary Morstan," I nod tensley. "What is the... pleasure of having you here today?"

"I wanted to thank you for attempting to cooperate with my... suggestion to keep your distance," she says.

"It was, most certainly, not for you. I am quite certain you know all my actions are all for him specifically, and him alone."

"Of course."

"Although I must admit that I do not dislike you as much as I previously had."

"Why is that?"

"I'm sure you can figure it out for yourself."

Morstan pauses and I watch as the realization dawns upon her in a matter of seconds.

"Yes, I see," she nods.

"John is happy with you," I confirm. "He deserves to be happy."

"I'm glad you understand that I care about him-"

"...We both care about him." I interrupt, quite irritated by her once more. I push the feeling away to focus.

For the first time, Morstan gives a small smile - barely, as her eyes were still cold, but a smile nonetheless.

"Looks like we do have something in common after all," she says.

"I should confirm now that all this doesn't make us... friends." I scowl at the last word that can only be used for one other person.

She nods again. "I know."

"Good. That is settled, then."

"I have to ask... why do you care about John so much?" she asks. At first I assume she is taunting me. Dangling John in front of me like some object we both want...

"He..." I begin, not sure where to start. I do not want to tell her anything. Though I remember it will not make much difference by now. "...he is tolerable."

"Oh, yes... tolerable."

I scowl, continuing. "He never insults me. He's the only person who... cared about me. He's not an idiot. Is that good enough for you? Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to my life."

"One more thing," Morstan protests. "I have to ask -"

"No."

"I'm sorry, what...?"

"No. You were wondering if I will be a part of you and John's relationship at all anymore. To avoid more unnecessary, complicated situations regarding the three of us, the answer is no. I will not be 'bothering' you - nor John - any longer."

Morstan seems to not be sure what else to say next. For a moment I see a new flicker of emotion I have not imagined or expected for her to acquire at all in my presence.

"Do not pity me," I warn. "I do not need it."

She does not say anything. I pause, unsure, before adding:

"After all... I never expected John to stay here forever."

It's the truth. At least, I believe it is. Still... is it?

Even I do not believe myself anymore.

Morstan doesn't seem to be entirely convinced either, but nods anyway. Most likely to get away as quickly as possible.

"Good day, Sherlock Holmes," she says finally.

I do not watch her go. I instead, I shut the door behind her without a second glance.

I am positive it is the last time I will ever see that lady again.


	11. Chapter 11

I am not left to myself immediately after Mary Morstan leaves, for my phone vibrates against the table it lies upon.

I approach the table and pick up the phone, glancing at the text message displayed on the screen:

_Moran ready for more questioning if you need it. -GL_

Exactly what I have been waiting for.

I take a cab and soon see Lestrade waiting in front of the prison. I approach him.

"Sherlock," he sighs. "I'm glad you decided to come."

"I'm just here for Moran," I say. "And then I'm leaving."

Lestrade hesitates for a moment more and then nods.

"That's fine."

I follow Lestrade away from the entrance and towards the hallway I spot Anderson not too far away and he perks up, scowling at me.

"Where's Watson?" he asks in a taunting voice. "Must have gotten tired of having to put up with-"

I shoot him the most cold and intimidating glare that I could muster and it seems to work, for the idiot immediately closes his mouth, suddenly acting as if he never said anything in the first place.

At least he has about .1 % of intelligence.

I continue to walk and soon Lestrade stops in front of a door.

"Now, please don't provoke him all too much," Lestrade warns. "Remember he's one of the most -"

"Yes, yes, I know," I say.

And then I am inside the quiet room with only one other person.

Sebastian Moran stares at me from a table in the center of the room. Upon seeing me his hands curl into fists, muscles bulging underneath the white shirt he is wearing. His eyes are focused like a lion or tiger watching its prey, waiting for the right moment to strike and make its kill. The hatred displaying clearly on his face is a look I have not seen so often.

It's amazing, how much the atmosphere changes.

I move towards him now, watching with a sort of amusement that I can not truly fathom. Somehow the animosity pleases me - that I can do this to him.

Finally I stand just in front of him, staring back cooly.

"The great Sebastian Moran..." I say softly. "...brought down so easily."

He says nothing.

"You could have fled," I continue. "You could have gotten another job. Another life - a chance to live; to escape. Taken your money and do something for yourself... buy more weapons, even. Bought another flat somewhere far away... forgotten about your life with a consulting criminal. So why did you stay?"

I am not surprised by his lack of speaking. Although I do know I know I will most certainly make him talk.

"Do you think about that? What would have happened if you hadn't been so very loyal? Such a disappointment. Perhaps you could have been the most dangerous man in London if you had control of yourself."

He looks down.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I say, and this alone seems to catch his attention.

"What the fuck are you on about?" Moran demands lividly.

_That's more like it._

"Through the years, I've learned many things. Some interested me... others caused me boredom. One of the most significant ones I kept going back to was emotion."

I sit down on the opposite chair now.

"It's a serious disadvantage... for emotions to take control of one. Horrible for your situation, especially. I've thought up theories on why your loyalty to your boss never faltered."

I pause. "I wonder... was James Moriarty more than just a boss to you?"

Moran stands up abruptly now, and I was sure he could have killed me there and then. I don't move.

"Shut up," he mutters, gritting his teeth.

"Where you somehow hoping that... he might come back for you?"

He narrows his eyes. "I said shut that smart-ass mouth of yours."

"Well, he's dead," I say coldly. "And he is never coming back for you."

"You killed him..." he whispers hoarsely. It is not clear whether it's a question or a statement. Perhaps it's both.

It does not matter, nonetheless. I sigh in a sort of mocking sympathy, standing up. I decide to tell him the truth... might as well.

"Oh... you are very in denial. He shot himself in the mouth... _just_ like that. He took his own life without a second hesitation. And may I add that he never thought once about you? His last minutes spent on... who? Oh, that's _right..._ " I smirk. "...me."

The table is kicked towards me but misses, hitting the opposite wall instead with a loud crash.

"It's quite all right," I say once more, and I see now that I have gotten through to him truly. Moran is now shaking violently in rage, breathe rapid and eyes so terribly belligerent. "You'll move on. That's what people do, after all."

That seems to be it for him and I turn away just after I see him sink to his knees, miserable and angry enough to kill anyone now.

Emotions are so powerful.

"Done?" Lestrade asks, and I can see he is attempting to hide his surprise at the state of Moran in the room.

"Yes."

I pass through and exit the prison, not quite sure what I feel anymore. I definitely do not feel guilty, though not happy either.

With my head cleared and John officially out of my life, I feel somewhat more focused and direct about everything.

 _John..._ the name no longer has the familiar "flutter" feeling or melancholy. It's simply John - the past. My past. No... not even that. Perhaps just past.

As I enter the cab I find I feel as if a large burden is lifted off of me.

I am moving on.


	12. Chapter 12

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?"

I look up from my violin at Mycroft. He is looking at me with that cool stare of his. He had arrived over half an hour ago and had been droning on as I plucked away at my violin.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft repeats, and I roll my eyes. "You can not simply ignore me forever."

"Why not?"

He sighs but continues to keep his patience.

"I am deeply concerned for you at the moment," he says.

"Don't be."

"And I know what - or who - it is that has caused the sudden change in your behavior and habits."

I pause for a moment, fiddling with the violin's bridge and strings.

"How is Dr. Watson doing?" Mycroft asks.

I feel a flash of anger and I immediately regret it when Mycroft raises his eyebrows. Pleased with my somewhat expected reaction, nonetheless.

"I am aware, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "In fact, I'm quite certain almost everyone is aware of your relationship with your flatmate."

"Piss off."

"I am surprised you have become so... predictable."

"John is no longer with me at the moment," I narrow my eyes. "Has not been."

"Yes. Mary Morstan is a nice woman."

"What exactly is it you want?"

"That part is obvious. I'm simply checking to see if everything is alright after the most recent events."

"Lestrade called you. Why didn't you just send one of your irritating spies or government officials?"

"I had to check on you myself. Usually there would be someone here to attend to your needs."

"Either inform me of your reason being here or leave."

He pauses and then continues.

"I believe you are in grave danger."

"Exciting."

"Not once you understand exactly what kind of danger I am referring to."

"What are you referring to?"

"Emotional danger."

I sigh. Emotions… it was starting to become a burden more than a thrilling experience.

"I am not interested."

"Unfortunately, that is not for you to decide."

"Why is that?"

"It involves – as you may have deduced – John Watson."

"John Watson is not a part of my life anymore. He has absolutely nothing to do with me at all. Perhaps in the past; however, not now."

"Because he has been a part of your life before, he always will be."

"Why can't you and the government do something? If he is in danger, track down the assassin. But whatever is to happen after that, let he and Morstan be."  
I could not help thinking: What to be if John were in danger? Would Mycroft go ahead and help him even without my asking? probably not. He has absolutely nothing to do with them though... especially since I no longer am involved with them.

"Did you truly believe leaving Dr. Watson and Ms. Mary Morstan alone would keep them safe?"

I look up. I do not care that he has caught my attention and ignore the look of pride on Mycroft's face for this accomplishment.

"There have been threats implied and targeted towards Watson. No doubt it has something to do with your relations with him."

"Sebastian Moran has been arrested..."

"...and James Moriarty is dead," Mycroft finishes. "Then who could be the culprit behind this now?"

I close my eyes and search through memories of faces and names. Most previous encounterments with people I would consider an enemy is now either deceased, arrested, or simply gone.

Still, it could be anybody.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Do whatever you believe is necessary."

"I want to see him," I say, my voice coming out in a sort of whisper.

"What exactly do yo mean by that? You must know that specification is a significant thing to -"

"I want to see John Watson again," I say clearly. "I want him here. With me."

Safe.

"And Morstan?"

"Here as well," I say reluctantly. She simply would not go away if anyone asked her to. It should annoy me... however I was beginning to feel a faltering acceptance towards her. No matter what, she continues to fight her way for John. With her previous spouse, she had been completely dedicated. It was obvious she was not going to simply let go like that.

"How long?" I ask.

"How long... what?"

"Until they must come here!" I snap impatiently.

"Not necessarily long. Perhaps... tonight."

Tonight. I am to see John Watson tonight. In less than two hours.

I do not attempt to hide my relief at this thought. The part of me insists that I continue the process of moving on. I have already made much progress. Although that other small part that I usually ignore... it continues to give me a sort of hope.

"Before I go," Mycroft says, "I have heard also of your... encounter with Sebastian Moran."

"What does it matter?"

"You were unusual with him, from what I have heard. He was extremely upset after you left. I was surprised they were able to stop him from murdering anymore people."

"He deserved it," I mutter.

"Playing hero again, brother?" Mycroft sneers.

"Must I go over this again?"

"You mustn't deny it any longer. Remember when you were younger, and you wanted to be a superhero? Apart from the pirate, that is."

"You may leave."

Mycroft turns towards the door.

"No matter what you decide to accept, your talents and mind will always reflect on how you are remembered," he says over his shoulder. "What matters is that you must decide how you use them to reflect on who you are."

"Yes, goodbye."

I listen as the door opens and then closes. For a moment I panic at the thought of John being here again. How long has it been since I have seen him? And what would happen when I do?

Would I feel overwhelmed by his presence? After being alone in the flat for so long, it is a possibility.

The only way to know for sure is to see what happens next.


	13. Chapter 13

It is just after the sun disappears when there is a knock at the door. I sit up slowly from the couch.

_It's him._

For a moment I feel like fleeing. I remember my goal. I need to get out and avoid him as much as possible in order to get over him completely. I absolutely must regain control of my emotions again.

But how I yearned for his familiar presence. To have that feeling of joy and warmth. I want to feel him close by me at all times - to have the knowledge that he is by my side, never to leave. And because of the circumstances now, there is no changing my mind about the whole thing.

Why must life be so complicated and unfair? Of course, it wouldn't be interesting if it weren't. Still, I remember how it was before all these new problems.

It had to all come someday.

And so, with still some hesitance, I open the door.

"John." My voice comes out in a whisper.

He's wearing the light jumper that he wear so often. It's soft and comfortable and so very John.

"Sherlock," he says.

I clear my throat and gesture inside. He's holding a few bags and Mary is right behind him.

"There's still the bedroom upstairs," I say.

"Thank you," John says. He pauses. "Mary, I'll meet you upstairs."

_Oh, God, no. Why?_

I take a deep breath.

"Sherlock."

I open my eyes. He's there. Right there. In the flat with me once more.

For a moment it feels like how it was before. The cases, crime scenes, and experiments... when there was not exactly that much to worry about. Not as much as now, anyway.

"John."

"This..." He clears his throat.

_This what!?_

"Yes?"

"...It... this... does not really, um. Not exactly change anything. Between us."

"What?"

He sighs. "I just... I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

"What are you -"

_Oh._

My eyes widen in realization and John exhales.

"I know..." Words are failing me. Not now! Not at the worst time. "...I know. It's... fine."

He is implying that I am imagining he is still with me. That possibly, him staying here will give me... hope. I hate that he is right. It is times like these that I wish we did not know each other as much as we do.

"I'm sorry," He mutters, looking down.

"John..."

"No... you know what? Good night. Sorry... about everything."

He goes straight upstairs and I feel torn inside.

…

I awaken suddenly from the couch. It's daylight already. I feel someone's presence and I sit up.

Mary Morstan stares at me from the table.

"Where's John?"

She smiles to herself. "Good morning to you too."

"I want to know. It's not safe," I tell her impatiently.

"He just went downstairs to get some breakfast. Nothing to worry about."

"Unless someone decides to kill him there."

She seems shocked but does not show it the next second.

I sit back and close my eyes. How long will this go on? Mycroft must be doing this on purpose.

What if there is no real threat? That would certainly be one of the most irritating things Mycroft has done. Embarrassing even.

"How is he?"

Mary pauses. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I..." She seems to be thinking of what to reply to that. I know she knows. "I think he's doing fine."

"Define."

"He seems less... stressed now, I suppose. Until this happened. The threats..."

"The threats don't have anything to do with it."

She looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"Being 'less stressed' like you say. He is not less stressed at all. He is simply... bored."

"How would you know any of that?"

"I am not sure if you are aware of this, but one of the reasons he stayed with me in the first place was because he missed it."

"Missed what?"

"The thrill. The war."

She narrows her eyes. "That's ridiculous."

"Ask him, then." I shrug.

"What you are trying to do here, Mr. Holmes, I have no idea. But if you -"

"No."

"No...?"

"What you're thinking. For the record, I have absolutely nothing to do with the threats. Even I am not that much of an idiot to threaten someone to see them."

I am not entirely sure if that is the truth. Still.

She nods and stands up to leave.

"I'm going to go upstairs."

I listen to her steps fade and sigh.

_John Watson. You ruin me completely._


	14. Chapter 14

When one is in love, the thought of someone they care about being in danger causes the most inexplicable, overwhelming feeling of agony no one would have imagined to be so strong. They would want nothing more but for that one other person to be safe from danger's grasp; to be far – so very far – away from the point of death. To be assured that the one they love is safe; anyone else's ability to harm that person gone. To be willing to give one's own life for another. They wake up expecting – sometimes longing for – their other half's warmth beside them. To turn to the side and see them there… to hear them breathing. To watch their eyes open, to see that wash of recognition the next second, and to smile in happiness, is the best feeling. To not have to speak at all because there is no need for words… not when together.

Which is precisely why I must do everything in my power to protect John Watson. Even if it means putting my own life at risk. He has done that so many times for me after all, and me for him. Now is not any different from just another thrilling, risky danger that depends on one of us living, or - if we're lucky - both of us being able to live.

I wrap my scarf around me and shrug on my trench coat once more. There are so many times when I have done this routinely. It reminds me of another time long ago when it was a different situation - a different danger - that depended on the choices I made.

When I reach the front door, I look back in the direction of the room John is in now. Most likely asleep. I wonder: John, what are you dreaming about now? Are those nightmares gone and no longer disturbing your peace? Are you somewhat at peace, with no more worries to stress you?  
Perhaps you will be once this is all over - once I am out of the way. When you no longer must have the burden of me at all. Hopefully - if things go right - that is how it will be for you. Everything will finally be all right.

I force myself to look away and I walk until I am out into the cool night air. It is quiet. No one is around at the moment. It is just past midnight but there is no one. No one but who I believe is waiting here.

I walk a little bit more away from 221B. If there is someone else here - watching and following me - they will get away from the flat. Away from John.

After a couple minutes I stop. It is an even more deserted area.

It's time.

"You can show yourself, you know," I say into the dark. "It's not like it's a secret. I know you're here."

I pause, waiting. There is no reply. Except there is the presence - I am so very sure of the presence.

"I do not know why you're following me. I don't understand why you must target my mere blogger to get to me. You could have just asked me: 'Can I shoot you now?'"

Finally, I hear it - the shift. It's so very low and nearly inaudible, but it was there. I can't help but smirk.

"Of course, you would have expected me to say no. Why would anyone want to get shot? Another question is: Why would anyone want to shoot me?"

At my words I hear more shuffling. And then I realize. This is no expert - not a worker of Moriarty or Moran. This is... _pathetic._ Boring.

"Oh," I laugh. "You are nobody. Simply some _child_ who wants to prove they are worth anything. You know nothing of me! Nothing but what you've read in the papers. Who hired you?"

It is almost humorous - that some person who hates me because of an old lie is sending death threats to John Watson. Or that Moran is attempting to get revenge by hiring some amateur. That is actually the case, most likely.

It doesn't matter anyway. Though it does seem like a sort of pathetic way to die.

"No one is stopping you now," I say. _As long as you stay away from him._

I close my eyes and think of John once more. It's simple: I can't live without him. That's the truth.

What could he be thinking right now? What would he be thinking after all this? He'll get over it, surely. Live the happy life he deserves.

I hear the sound of the trigger and then there is absolutely nothing.


	15. Chapter 15

open my eyes, immediately recognizing the place I am lying in.

This has happened much too many times for me to be surprised. My muscles feel heavy - most likely from medication - and my head is a bit dizzy when I sit up abruptly. The walls, ceiling, bed, and more are white and otherwise boring. I feel someone's gaze upon me as well and I close my eyes once more.

"I never liked hospital rooms either." The irritating voice comments.

"Go away, Mycroft."

"You were unconscious for two days. You could have been killed." I hear the slight concern in my older brother's voice, and I almost laugh. _'Caring is not an advantage'_ he insists. Of course, that seems to apply to all except him.

"That risk is no longer relevant to me," I shrug, having no choice but to open my eyes again. I don't turn to face Mycroft, however. "Surely you are aware of that."

"Even so, you absolutely must be more careful. What could have made you act so carelessly!?" Mycroft raises his eyebrows, looking almost agitated.

"That is most certainly none of your business," I scowl.

"As your brother, I have the right to know."

"As my brother, you have the right to keep your fat nose in your own business." I attempt to sit up in a straighter posture, not expecting the pain in my head. I ignore it, although I see Mycroft notice my slight wince. I ignore that as well. "Now may I go back to the flat?"

"Not yet. You know that," Mycroft sighs, walking over to the window. He moved the blinds sightly, causing sunlight to enter the already bright room.

"This is ridiculous."

I continue to study the ever so dull hospital room, feeling an overwhelming tiredness, though I had apparently been unconscious for two days. If Mycroft is telling the truth.

"Two days..." Mycroft says, reading my mind again. "...Shows that you were not careful enough."

"I knew what was going to happen. I was ready."

"You loss copious amounts of blood, the bullet almost hit an organ, and there was a suspicion of internal bleeding. You can never be careful enough, no matter how you plan things," Mycroft says coldly. "No matter how 'ready' you feel, things will never go accordingly to you."

"Obviously, I am alive and healthy now. That is all that matters, yes? I do have a life, you know..."

"...That you are not taking care of very well!" Mycroft seems worn down and I feel as if I had won, as he changes the subject. He smoothes out the front of his suit jacket, adjusting his tie and slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"We caught the one who shot at you," he says.

"I don't care."

Mycroft sighs once more, continuing. "Another 'enemy' of yours, it seemed. Believed and insisted greatly you were a fake. Very childish and inexpericened... had no idea what he was doing. I'm surprised he was even able to shoot at you that well." He pauses. "Although it shouldn't be too difficult."

"Shut up," I scowl again.

"It's true."

"If you leave, allow me to leave with you. I am in a capable condition to leave," I say.

"You were shot!"

"I've been shot before!"

"Sherlock..." Mycroft closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, keeping his patience in check. I smirk, wondering if I can simply break him so he can let me go. Although that does not usually happen, it is the easiest option.

"I am better," I insist, staring up at the ceiling. "If you don't let me go now, I will only get myself into more trouble later."

Mycroft narrows his eyes, as if debating whether or not to succumb to my wishes. Or simply reading me. He idly twists the umbrella he leans against, the metal clinking against the tiles of the room.

"One more day - that is all, and that is final," Mycroft says flatly. There's no getting around Mycroft when his tone is as final as it is now.

I do not agree or accept, although it seems that Mycroft is completely aware that I am not going anywhere. I realize it is morning, coincidentally, from Mycroft's watch.

"I have an important meeting soon," Mycroft informs after a minute.

"Well, then, feel free to sod off."

Mycroft rolls his eyes, sighing. "Please do not get shot again when I am gone."

"Won't count on it," I grumble, already realizing exactly how vexatious the bed and hospital gown is. I can not help but shift uncomfortably. As Mycroft begins to turn, I look back up.

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I ask him.

"Perhaps you will find it not so difficult to adapt to what normal people tend to do when they are not chasing criminals," Mycroft shrugs, eyeing the television on the wall.

I glance in his direction and sigh heavily.

_This is going to be a long day._


	16. Chapter 16

Mrs. Hudson seems to hate me when I arrive back. Although it does end in hugs and a relieved Mrs. Hudson. I don't understand; surely she is used to this type of thing by now.

It's odd being back at 221B knowing what I will come home to.

When Mrs. Hudson finally leaves I find the flat completely empty. I dare to check John's bedroom and find it empty as well.

The realization is clear: He's left.

That's it. Perhaps John will go off to get married with Mary again. Good for him. A nice, normal, settled down life without me. Of course. I was so foolish to think he was going to stay here forever.

I'll simply retire in a few years, he'll have kids of his own, and that will be that. Because that's how it always was going to be.

Still, I feel angry, upset, and disappointed. As if I didn't know this was coming.

I need a smoke. Or something. Anything that can take my mind off what has happened.

I will try to delete John once more tonight. It's the only reasonable thing.

I will start with the first time we met. That memory had been kept for reasons that do not matter anymore. When your life story was there for me to read. It was so easy, yet so fascinating. Then, that crime scene. The one with the lady in pink. You were so astonished, John. I thought you were mocking me. Who would be so impressed with my deductions? You, apparently. It still surprises me, though.

Sally. Sarah. Whatever your date was named. Why didn't I delete that yet? Was it because she had to do something with you?

And then back to him. Moriarty. Always worming his way in here and there. When there was a bomb strapped to your chest. When you were willing to give your life for me. I thought about that for the longest time, you know. Surprised me again.

Irene Adler. She thought we were a couple. I didn't think we were then. I had my suspicions, though. I simply didn't think too much about it. You were straight; you dated girls. The evidence was clear enough. Yet Irene insisted. That was interesting.

The Hound. We were going to share a room. That's what they implied.

And then what happened three years ago. I'm sorry.

Hold on.

What's that?

There are footsteps. Some voices. Recognizable ones.

Then, the door opens.

You.

It's you.

John.

For a moment, I don't speak. I can't. John, you are the only one who can render me speechless like this.

You don't seem to be speaking either. Are you all right? Are you angry at me? Do you still get angry at me when I put myself in danger?

The memories I had just been thinking about come rushing back at the same time. So much for attempting to delete you yet again. It seems that I will never be able to delete you.

I shake my head in an attempt to bring myself back to reality. No use speaking to John in my head, after all.

"Sherlock," he says. It's simply my name. Only my name, with so many things said within it. _Where the hell have you been? What were you thinking? Did you have any idea how worried I was about you? It's okay, though. It is all right. You're here now._

I'm here now.

Before I can stop myself, I step forward, and suddenly John's hand is gripping my arm. I look into his eyes once more.

And then John Watson leans forward and kisses me.

I break the kiss as quickly as it begins. It is all too sudden - too much.

My heart is beating too rapidly, my breathing too ragged. I can feel my heart against my chest as if it is going to burst out any second. It feels as though my soul had been sucked through my lips.

Perhaps I am exaggerating. But no. That is exactly how it feels like to be kissed by him. It wouldn't feel that way for him, though, would it? He's done this many times. He's even gone further. _Do you feel this way with me, John?_ Or am I much too in love with you?

For a moment millions of thoughts burst through my mind. The next second I could not think.

I could not think at all.

"John -"

"Sherlock... just relax. It's okay now."

"I -"

He silences me with another kiss, and this time I find myself not pulling away. Instead I allow it to happen, and it is both the best and most frightening thing.

Soon, however, I succumb to John's lips and I simply allow it to happen. Kiss me, John. Kiss me like I've always wanted to kiss you. This is the time.

You're so warm. I always wondered when I would be able to come this close. My heart is beating rapidly but so is yours. Had you wanted to do this to me just as much as I had? How long?

Why didn't we do this sooner?

Are you nervous? I know I am. I won't admit it, but it's true. You make me so nervous. You make me feel a lot of things I would have never felt without you. Why do you do this to me?

We're on the couch now. How did we even get here? It doesn't matter. Not really. Not now.

Your body is on top of mine. The edge of the couch is digging into my back. I would have been uncomfortable, but for some reason I feel as if I want to stay here forever anyway. If it means being able to kiss you and hold you like this, then I would gladly stay here forever. You're amazing, John. You're fantastic.

Wait.

There's always something.

"Mary," I say, pulling back just a little, catching my breath. "She's -"

"Don't. Don't worry," he says, sitting back. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before looking at me again. "She's left."

I stare in disbelief. "What?"

"You heard me," he mutters, looking away.

Oh.

He chose me.

For a moment I don't do anything. The realization of truly having John back here with me has not settled just yet. How and why?

"John -"

"Is it really that surprising?" He asks, turning back to face me.

I am quiet for a moment. "Did you love her?"

He looks at me and I feel my heart sink at the hint of sadness in his eyes. "Yes," he admits. "But..."

But what?

"You. It's always been you, Sherlock. I suppose it always will be. I loved her, but I wasn't in love with her. There's a difference. To me, at least. It's just... I can't bear the thought of leaving you forever. No matter what I do, I can't get you out of my head. When you left before, I couldn't live. Mary helped me sort of recover but... it was never the same. I saw you everywhere. You were in a restaurant, or across the street. Was that really you, by the way? Because I ran for you, but then you were just gone the next second.

"I couldn't sleep; I couldn't eat. You didn't even give me a small hint that you were alive. Was it that difficult for you to just give me one sign? Do you even understand what you did to me?" John finishes, suddenly looking quite upset.

"I'm sorry, John," I say after a moment, my voice almost a whisper. "But I had no choice. Moriarty -"

"I know. I don't want to talk about it," he says. "That's over. That's the past, yes? He's gone. We're still here. There are still others like Moran and whoever the hell decided to shoot you this time, but it's still the two of us, right here and now. Unless a bomb decides to go off or someone else decides to shoot at us right now, there's nothing to worry about. Not now."

I look at him for a moment more before nodding. "All right."

"Good," he says, smiling in relief. "That's good."

We stay there for a while, neither of us quite sure what to do next. What do friends do after they kiss each other? After years of wanting to do so? I am not sure, and I probably never will be. Though John has most certainly done this before. He should know what to do.

But it seems that he doesn't. So this is as different - or special - for him as it is for me.

Good.

That's good.

"John," I begin again, licking my lips nervously. "I can't... explain."

He chuckles. "Well, that's something new."

"With you, it's always new," I say. "I wish I could tell you or show you how much you mean to me." Why couldn't I just say everything that I think? _You're my best friend. There's no one else like you. You fascinate me more than dead bodies and serial murders. More than mysteries, more than bees, and more than anything. I can't live without you. You're my universe, John. I'd happily spend the rest of my life with you. Perhaps I sound obsessive, but it's true. I honestly hope you feel the same way, but I'm not sure. Because I'm so in love with you._

No more words come out of my mouth, however, but John seems to understand. He always does.

"I'm sorry," I say again. Why do I continue to apologize? I've never apologized that many times before.

John doesn't reply, instead leaning forward once more to press our lips together. Sparks go off and the new, warm feeling blooms inside of me. I don't want to leave. Ever.

"You're sorry?" John says in a sort of disbelief once he pulls back. I yearn for his touch again, but allow him to speak. "I should be the one saying sorry. You went out and got yourself shot for me, didn't you?"

"So you did notice."

"You're an idiot!" John laughs, failing to seem stern. "How could you do that? You could have talked to me about it. We could've stayed here, safe, which was the original plan."

"You don't understand," I say, looking away.

"What? Is getting shot a new hobby of yours?"

I sigh. "I couldn't risk it."

"Couldn't risk what, exactly?" He continues.

"I couldn't risk you getting hurt." I turn back to face him again.

He looks shocked. Was it that unexpected? He truly seems to underestimate his meaning to me.

"What?" He finally asks, still in disbelief.

"I don't like repeating things. You know that."

"Right. Sorry. I just... Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Do you love me?" He asks seriously. It is such a serious question, after all. One that could only be answered truthfully. A question that I always had expected me to be the one to ask. Apparently not, then.

The words are still repeating in my mind long after he asks them. I realize I am probably hesitating too long, but he should understand.

Without another wasting second, I nod.

"Yes."

The wave of relief that washes over John makes me smile. He smiles back.

"Sherlock, you are so... ignorant of these things."

I don't question anymore on that subject. I didn't ask how long, when, or why he felt the same way. Because I couldn't explain it either if I had to.

Though there was still one more thing.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Do you... _love_ me as well?" A while ago, the word would have been pointless and irritating. Now, it means everything.

"Yes," he replies without hesitating. "Of course."

It is my turn for relief to wash over me. I was not alone, then. I was not convincing myself he loved me back. He did. He really did. Although it was already quite clear, I needed the confirmation, that yes that made it official in my mind.

And that was the best thing.

The next thing that happens is something I cannot comprehend into words. Because what comes next is something unfamiliar and alien to me.

Passion, truth, and intimacy. There's never enough of each other. There isn't enough touching, skin, and feeling. Clothes are an obstacle, though we both know we shouldn't rush for something we're both not ready for. Perhaps next time, then. Soon. I'm willing. It's John.

When it's over - though not really over, more like a break - we had already retreated to my bedroom. I look over sideways at John, whose hair is disheveled and messed. His clothes are roughed up a bit too after being grasped and fumbled with. I must look the same. It's so new and so interesting, this level of physical contact. Could I get tired of this? No. It's John. How could I ever get tired of John?

We don't speak for a while. We simply look at each other, giving the occasional small smile that explains everything we want to say. We can sit in silence and still understand each other. I don't exactly believe in fate or soul mates, but if they were real, I am certain John is who I've been waiting for all my life.

Then, the worrying returns. The dreaded questions that I must ask return now.

"You're not going to leave me, are you?"

The words do not sound like they came from me, but they did, and I know it. The look on John's face confirms it.

"Never," he says, planting a gentle (but equally passionate as before) kiss on my lips. "Why would you think that?"

"Because everybody leaves." And it's the sad truth.

"I'm not leaving."

I take a deep breath. "Even after... I left?"

He nods and then breaks into a sad sort of smile. "Even after all that. Like I said before: after you left me there with no reason to live anymore. I still can't let you go now. So if you try to leave me, then we'll have a problem."

I pause. "Why?"

He looks at me questioningly. "Why...?"

"Why me?"

John moves closer and then holds me close. I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his scent. I feel his heart beating softly against his chest and he speaks to me gently.

"No matter what happens, just know that I love you. You can take that in a friendly or real way, by the way."

"I don't deserve you," I whisper. And it's true.

"You deserve more than you think," he says as he kisses my forehead.

I am silent after his words are spoken. Not too long later, I find myself slowly drifting off in John's arms. Finally, it is over. The suffering and the wait was worth it. I won't let anything happen to us. Not now. Because we are together, and that's all that matters.

Then, and forever.

My John.


End file.
